


A Lesson in Poolside Decorum

by therogueheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cock Slapping, Cock Tease, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, Groping, Kissing, M/M, Mild Gunplay, Neck Kissing, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Palming, Potential Daddy Kink, Rough Kissing, Scene Rewrite, Smut, Use of 'Daddy', mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: The meeting we all adored, re-imagined.Or; Moriarty takes gratuitous advantage of Sherlock at the poolside.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	A Lesson in Poolside Decorum

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Pretty shit summary, sorry. My mind got as far as 'poolside fucking' and kinda...Stopped. I don't even have an excuse for this, I was just bingeing Sherlock to get through self-iso and my swamp monster brain latched onto 'Daddy' and did all the work for me. I genuinely have no other excuse. I didn't even have a way to end this. I ad-libbed the whole thing while watching Cars.

Sherlock was never one for swimming. A strop and a bit of blackmail in his primary school years had gotten him straight out of the mandatory P.E lessons, and when they weren't forcing him to watch from the sidelines, he'd spent such sessions working quietly in an empty classroom or library. He knew _how_ to, of course. Partook now and then, though it was less 'swimming' and more 'floating', using the weightlessness and sensory relief that water provided to hone his mind. The way his footsteps echo is not unfamiliar, but its not overly familial, either. There's no cameras here, privacy laws prevent it. One little slip of a nipple or testicle and its a lawsuit splashed across the front page of the newspapers. 

Its perfect, really. 

Closed at this time, though the lock was all but nothing to pick and the light switch was easy enough to find, even without the label. There's no sign of life except his own oxfords, loud and echoing against the gentle slap of the water. Sherlock's almost disappointed that his companion is hiding, but he knows the game of cat and mouse all too well. His playmate lay down the thread. Now its up to Sherlock to pull it. Except he isn't going to simply pull it, no. 

He's going to unravel it, fibre by fibre. Dissect it. 

"I've brought you a gift" he called out, voice confident. The USB stick is warm from his pocket, smooth under his fingertips. He does so hope that Mycroft learned his lesson about the correct storage of something so monumental. "A little...'Getting to know you' present" he added, because that was what this was truly about. What he was _truly_ so excited to know. Oh, the games had been delightful, sure. But plenty of people had given him riddles. Plenty of people had given him timers. Perhaps none as complex, as personalised, but in the end they were just games. 

No. He wanted to know the face behind the puppets. Wanted to know which enigmatic, curious, _challenging_ man had orchestrated this. The games had been gifts, too, afterall. How could they not have? An opportunity to challenge himself, to shine, wrapped up in a neat, explosive bow. It _thrilled_ him. Sherlock could practically _kiss_ this man. The smile is curving his mouth unbidden, but he doesn't move to stop it. What's a show of appreciation, afterall? 

"That's what all of this is about, isn't it? All these games. Making me _dance_. You were just trying to _distract_ me". And oh, but it _almost_ worked! How _wonderful_. How refreshing. Of course, get Mycroft to try and pressure him into something and its only natural that Sherlock would stick out his tongue and waltz away. Mycroft was the perfect ruse to get him to look away. He can't even be mad that for a short while, it worked. He waggled the USB for a moment longer before pocketing it again, strolling leisurely alongside the shimmering liquid. 

"I know you're here. I can _feel_ you. I've done my fair share of reaching out". Sherlock was never one for patience. Not when it didn't matter. And it isn't imperative now. His playmate just wants to watch him squirm, wants his own entrance. 

"I _did_ give you my number". The voice is sing-song, almost high pitched. A definitive pout behind the words. "I thought you might call. I even got dressed up for you". Sherlock can feel every nerve in his body ignite, his heartbeat leaping. 

This is it. 

A number. The voice. The memory is right on the tip of his tongue, half-forgotten but dragged out of its grave by the sheer desire to _know_. He's hyperaware of how eager he looks, spinning on his heel to face the origin of the echo, the glittering pair of eyes in the darkness of a corner, like a monster under the bed. And this? This was almost as good as a real high. A real drug. Its all he can do not to _run_ to the shadows. 

He doesn't have to. 

In the lull of his own, measured footsteps fill the void. Dress shoes. Smart, not unlike his own. A compound sole, designed for that attention-grabbing _clack_ on solid surfaces. The figure emerged with a casual air that screamed _predator_ , _control_. Dismissive and relaxed because every single winning card was in his hand. 

Sherlock breathed out. 

The man was _handsome_. Shorter than him, dark haired too, but his was carefully groomed, combed back in a very 1900's style. The dancing blue of the pool could almost be fire in his eyes, wicked, wide things, blinking slowly, almost demurely. In a clear show of power, the man looked away, down, heels scuffing as he took his sweet time in stepping into the light. The suit he wore was sharp, a luxury Valentino. Pitch, charcoal black. Cufflinks that glittered in a way that meant they could only be pure diamond. Four steps and he stopped, hands in his pockets, spinning on his heel to face Sherlock with a vaguely amused, vaguely bored air. 

"My, my. Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Its said with a note of husk, the faintest whisper of a smirk on the man's plush mouth. Sherlock matched it easily, hand moving smoothly to his hip to pull the weapon he'd pilfered from John's room into the light, to aim it steadily at his playmate. The man simply let his head loll a little, wicked eyes sparkling as he clicked his tongue. 

"Both" Sherlock announced, finger falling to rest on the trigger. And it was _true_. _This_ was the kind of thrill, the kind of act that sent dopamine and oxytocin surging through his veins. If not for his sheer interest in the game, he'd be half-hard in his own suit. "I'm pleased to see I wasn't the only one who dressed to impress" he noted wryly. 

"Is that what you want to do, Sherlock? Impress me?" The man purred, head tilting a little further, a patronising, coy smile taking over the smirk. Sherlock inclined his own head, gun held steady. 

"Jim Moriarty" the man introduced himself, with an air of boredom, even though Sherlock knew differently. The man had _wanted_ this. He'd wanted the game. The meeting. He'd wanted Sherlock to chase the string. The name sent a thrill down his spine, up his arms, a tingling sensation of _yes_. He'd known it all along. Ever since he heard the name for the first time, played the first game. 

"Hi-iii" The man sing-songed again, voice lilted and sweet. _Like butter wouldn't melt on his tongue_ , as Mrs. Hudson would say. But the demeanour doesn't change; the relaxed, bored, vaguely disinterest air doesn't leave. The man is a good actor. A _great_ actor. 

Jim. 

_Jim_. 

Even as it struck him, the man was offering a disappointed pout that barely concealed the smirk that threatened to grow, once again beginning his luxurious stroll around the pool. "Jim? From the hospital?" The man continued as Sherlock adjusted his grip on the gun, two hands now, not one. It wouldn't do to miss the shot. "Sweet little Molly Hooper's attempted rebound from your disinterest? Mm. I'll try not to be _too_ offended. A fleeting impression was rather the point". 

Sherlock debated on telling him that if he'd come in the suit, the impression would be vastly different, but he held his tongue, watching carefully, hyperaware of every little detail he could catalogue. He shifted his stance, relaxing any muscle that didn't need to be engaged. If Moriarty was so confident, it meant he had reason to be, and that could be in the form of anything from his own weapon to something far bigger. 

"I must admit, it was thrilling. The way you raked your gaze down me, cataloguing every little detail, right down to my _underwear_. It was almost enough to make a man blush". 

He doesn't need the prism splinter of the red laser bouncing through his lashes to know there's a red dot, fixed between his eyes as a target. In response, he thumbed the safety of his own gun off, the click reverberating around the room. Moriarty scoffed, the brief flutter of his lashes indicating he'd rolled his eyes. 

"Don't be _stupid_. Its a turn off. Someone else is holding the rifle. Besides; I have some incentive I'm sure will outweigh your righteous guidance to shoot me". Moriarty drew a hand out of his pocket, slowly, steadily. Two swipes of his thumb as he rounded the corner of the pool, and it didn't take an owl's vision to know the image that lit up the screen. 

John Watson, strapped to a chair that he shared with enough packed explosive to level a parking lot. Sherlock's heart spasmed in his chest, an uncomfortable, twisting sensation that made him breathe out, measured and careful. _John_. This man had John. 

"And just in case you don't believe me" Moriarty added in a sickly sweet tone, using his thumb to swipe across as he continued to advance, slowly and in fragmented pieces. What came next was a video, the exact same perspective, the exact same scene. 

_"Sherlock. I am strapped to a chair, with four pounds of ammonium explosive. Don't do anything stupid, or I die"._

"You really shouldn't let your pets out without supervision, Sherlock" Moriarty chastised, sucking air through his teeth as he tucked away his phone, lazy in the way that he stopped, several paces from Sherlock like some sort of stand-off. "Bad men might steal them for some _terrible_ purpose. Haven't you read the news lately?" 

Patronising and taunting shouldn't be invoking such a reaction, but Sherlock can feel his blood _sing_. Not even the fear of losing John can stop it, the honey-thick sensation that pools in his gut, seeping through his veins richer than any drug every could. 

Its _arousing_. 

"You should feel special, you know. I've given you a glimpse. Just the smallest, barest hint of even a _fraction_ of what I can do, Sherlock. Of what I'm doing out there, in that big, bad world". Moriarty wasn't even facing him head on, now. Body turned off to the side, another blatant display of the power dynamics going on here. Moriarty could afford not to look. To turn away. He could afford to drop his pants and take a piss, if he wanted. Even if he died, Sherlock wouldn't walk out of this, either. And neither would John. Moriarty could sit on the bleachers and have a nap, and all Sherlock would be able to do is stand and wait. 

And it was almost as delicious as it was terrifying. 

"You see, I'm a _specialist_. Like you" Moriarty announced, almost cheerfully with his brows raising and a half-smile lifting his mouth, like having something in common was going to be the start of a brilliant friendship. And oh, but it _would_. Sherlock could practically taste what it would be like to be at Moriarty's side, for Moriarty to be at his. Sherlock gave a low hum in response, delighting in the way that Moriarty looked at him from under a frame of long, dark lashes. Molly wouldn't even have had to be desperate to let this man swoop her off her feet - He could clearly play the field. 

Of course. The car company, the painting, all the other little games and puzzles. He almost laughed at it. 

"Dear Jim" he drawled, levelling the gun with his pretty eyes. "Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to America?". Moriarty advanced, amusement plain on his face now, though Sherlock couldn't be entirely sure it wasn't a mask as the man faced him with the fading tail-end of a grin, hands still tucked away, still utterly uncaring. 

"Just so" Moriarty replied in a deeper baritone, playing along with their little script. Sherlock's heart sang again, the thrill of the game coursing through him like electricity. He never wanted this moment to end - Never wanted to leave this poolside, playing with a murderer and a madman. Of all the ways he'd dreamed they'd meet, this was by far not amongst the most disappointing. How could it be? This man was, potentially, his _equal_. The Yin to his Yang, for all the good such a pathetic comparison did him. Sherlock wanted to lock the two of them together forever, a downward spiral of thrilling games and chases. 

"A consulting criminal" he murmured, the warmth of not being alone blossoming through his chest. Oh, yes. There was Mycroft, but Mycroft wasn't like this. Mycroft was the annoying, angelic presence over Sherlock's shoulder, too poised and too prim to do anything like this. Mycroft wasn't a challenge.

"Brilliant" he breathed, allowing just the hint of a smile. Moriarty cocked his head again, sly and almost flattered as he pulled a hand from his pocket, giving a short, mocking bow. 

"Isn't it?" He praised himself, advancing another step. They were barely more than an arms length apart now, enough that Sherlock could breathe in the richness of Moriarty's aftershave, the richness of the scent beneath that. Up close his eyes were dark, deep. An abyss that stared back. An how Sherlock wanted to leap into it, to see how far he fell. 

"Nobody ever gets to me, Sherlock" Moriarty drawled, lazy and easy, with all the bold confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable. It was the same confidence that Mycroft displayed in other ways. In sharp suits and a brash tone and a flourish of his abilities and reach. Moriarty's confidence wasn't annoying, however. It was delectable. 

Moriarty's eyes dripped down Sherlock's body like hot wax, blazing a path of heat even though it wasn't a physical touch. A blatant, appraising look. "And no-one ever will" he finalised, steady, unbothered. 

"I did" Sherlock refuted, head tilting. "All those little games I solved. Pulling your name from the mouth of a dying man. Bringing you here. _I_ got to you". 

"You've come the _closest_ " Moriarty admitted, though his eyes shone as he spoke it, like he was glad Sherlock had been the one to wade through the battlefield and come out on the other side. "Now you're in my way". Moriarty sounded disappointed as he said it, the words breathed with an air of partial reluctance. It reminded Sherlock of the little red dot between his eyes, and he could feel his cock fill against his thigh, could feel the headiness of the life-or-death scenario seeping into his bones. 

"Thank you". 

"I didn't mean it as a compliment". 

"Oh, but you did". Now it was Sherlock's turn to grin, to take a step closer. A bold move, but all it garnered with Moriarty's head tipping back a little, looking up at him in the way a lion might watch an antelope writhe and suffer. A pink, wet tongue danced across a plump lower lip. Moriarty was enjoying this as much as Sherlock was. It was blatant, evident. His pupils were dilated like eclipsed suns, threatening to swallow Sherlock whole. 

"Yeah, okay. I did" Moriarty relented, shrugging his shoulders with a roll of his neck, easy in the way he dropped his gaze back down Sherlock's body, like he could strip him of his clothing with his just the force of his eyes. With the way Sherlock's suit fit, it would be impossible not to get the impression of his situation, and Moriarty's lips twisted in a vicious, indulgent smirk, gaze raising back to Sherlock's with a raised brow. 

"But the flirting's over, Sherlock" Moriarty trilled, waving a hand dismissively. "Daddy's had enough no-www". He pitched it like a song at the end, gaze hardening, darkening. The trawling sensation of fear prickled at him. Was this it? Was Moriarty going to give the order? Gods, Mrs. Hudson. Who was going to shoot through her walls and eat all her custard creams now? 

"I've shown you what I can do, I-"

"Oh, I hardly think so. I think you've just _toyed_ with me. Moriarty. Given me a _glimpse_ of what you can do". It was rude to interrupt, Sherlock knew, and Moriarty's face darkened, head tilting in a manner that promised Sherlock would regret it. 

"Daddy doesn't like to be interrupted, Sherlock. Its _rude_ " Moriarty's voice was still musical, but the last word he snapped, stepping in closer, leaning, and Sherlock twisted, artfully using Moriarty's tie and jacket to spin them around, body pressed close to the smaller man's. His aftershave was stronger, here, his stature muscular. He used Moroccan oil in his hair, a thirty-two tooth finecomb, judging by the way his hair had settled with the gel. Moriarty didn't react except to laugh, head tossed back, relaxed in Sherlock's grip. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his slender waist, drawing him tight as he pressed the gun to his temple, firm enough that the metal had a bite to it. 

"Naughty naughty" Moriarty positively beamed, laughter in his voice as he dropped an arm and reached back, a fist on Sherlock's hips grinding his ass back against Sherlock's hips. He stopped like that, both of them locked together, like puzzle pieces. "Oh! Oh, now I know you didn't bring _two_ guns with you" the man purred, head tipping back, breath hot on Sherlock's jaw. He didn't have to look to hear the smirk in his voice. Sherlock gripped him tighter, unwilling to let go. 

His life depended on it. John's life depended on it. 

"Maybe you did pay attention to Jim from IT" Moriarty rumbled, iron gaze on him, burning, burning. "Did you like the little touch with the underwear, hm? Of _course_ you'd know about that". Moriarty was laughing at him, trying to distract him. "You should know, there's a sniper on every side of this roof. He'll blow your skull out from the back". He was truly a madman, laughing like a schoolgirl with a gun to his head, ass pressing back against the half-hard cock of the man holding it. 

"I don't doubt it. Daddy's a thorough planner" Sherlock responded lowly, to Moriarty's delighted, near breathless laugh. The elbow to the side shouldn't have come as a surprise, but he folds anyway, breath a sharp gasp. But Moriarty doesn't break away, no. The warped bastard just shoves them both backwards, sideways, until Sherlock's body hits the wall with force, until Moriarty isn't using him like a stripper pole anymore but staring at him. Sherlock's own gun comfortable underneath his chin. 

"Maybe you're not as _boring_ as I thought" the criminal mastermind mused, roles reversed, squeezing Sherlock back against the uncomfortable brick of the wall. Moriarty's own hardening length pressing into the lower crease of his thigh had him raising his brows. He wanted to make a snide remark or a witty quip, but Moriarty leaned backwards, enough for four inches of room, and slapped his stiffening length with as much force as the limited space could garner, jolting with a torn sound between a yell and a whimper as Moriarty pressed his palm forwards, harshly massaging Sherlock's dick through his suit trousers. 

"You may be on the side of the Angels, but I'll bet you want some of the Devil in you" Moriarty purred, harsh and low as his teeth bit into the side of Sherlock's jaw, tongue laving over the stinging imprints left there before he worked his way down, to the soft, vulnerable flesh of Sherlock's jugular, and under, forcing his head back so he could lick around where the muzzle of the gun lay under his chin. 

He can't hear anything except the roar of his own blood past his ears, the thrum of his heart, the echo of _pleasepleaseplease_ that threatened to become a solid sound. Pleasure in its carnal, dirty form wasn't something Sherlock involved himself with often. He was no virgin, of course. A dedicated scientist threw himself into his experiments wholly. But it was not something he found particularly indulging. It was sticky and messy and peculiar and it was always so awkward. The most he partook in now was the occasional bout of masturbation, a kick of chemicals that sometimes helped keep him sound, sane. 

This? This was a completely different thing. This was beyond carnal. Beyond messy. 

This was _divine_. 

"Oh, I'd _love_ to kill you, Sherlock. It would be my most beautiful piece of work yet" Moriarty drawled against his skin, rocking against his thigh again before landing another harsh slap. Sherlock jerked in the limited space, mouth falling open on a wrecked moan. For all his intellect and powers of deduction, he hadn't seen _this_ coming. Oh, the games were a flirting of sorts, of course. But the kind that doesn't end with sex. No, those kinds of games ended in _death_. 

"All the things I've done. All the people I've killed" he murmured, lips trailing Sherlock's throat, gun ever steady. "None of them would compare to killing you". From any other person it would be tender, a declaration of love. 

But, wasn't it? Wasn't this Moriarty's love? His desire? 

"I'd _ruin_ you, Sherlock. I've carve you out, like our initials in an oak tree. I'd sink an £18,000 knife between your ribs a millimetre at a time. All the things I'd do to you, I almost wish there were more of you, so I could do them all" Moriarty hummed, wrist turning so he could grab Sherlock's cock again, pressing his thigh forwards until the squeeze was almost the wrong side of painful. The moan Sherlock let out was unbidden, slack, and a treasure to the master criminal before him, who's hand left his cock to slide up his side, tracing the fragile lines of his ribs before moving up, over his shoulder, into his hair where slender fingers tugged at his hair with a viciousness normally reserved for a fight. 

"I'd make you _scream_ " Moriarty promised, wrenching his head back until Sherlock's spine was forced to bend, and then forwards again, dragging him down to Moriarty's level, until he stared into liquid obsidian eyes. He'd never felt this way before. Never. Not standing on the edge of a rooftop at fifteen, teasing the fall. Not folded over in his college dorm, riding out a high. Not losing his virginity, sinking into the weirdly wet, warm insides of a girl. 

This was _fire_. This _scorched_ him, from the inside out. His cock throbbed between them, harder than it had quite possibly ever been. The promise of a darker pleasure coursed through him, sparking off in every corner of his mind as Moriarty came closer, closer. 

Sherlock had never been enraptured with kissing. It was nothing but a press of fat and skin, awkward and impractical and serving no pleasurable function except the illusion of intimacy. But Moriarty's lips were plump, balmed soft and with the faintest hint of the Dalmore 35 whiskey he'd been drinking prior to coming here. It wasn't anything magical, it wasn't an orgasm-worthy act, but it was _pleasant_. Enough to make him groan into the killer's mouth, hands fisting in the silky suit material at his hips. Moriarty let him, smirking against his mouth. The first touch of his tongue was a warm, wet shock, but Moriarty didn't give him a chance to relish it, sinking his teeth into Sherlock's lower lip hard enough that the pain exploded across his mouth, blood copper and iron on his tongue. 

Moriarty swallowed the harsh exhaled sound of pain, teeth sinking deeper into the wound on his lip before they pulled out, away, the gun muzzle trailing down Sherlock's neck, pressing into his stomach before moving even lower. Moriarty's gaze never left his as Sherlock stared back at him, forcing his breathing to even, deepen, as the gun muzzle pressed against his cock. It served only to make his dick drool, pre-cum soaking into his boxers. The snipers were almost forgotten as he reached up, grasping Moriarty's tie to swallow his delighted laugh. 

"I-" Moriarty bit at his lip again, nicking the fresh wound and licking the blood from his mouth. "Would-" Another kiss, harsh enough that Sherlock's jaw began to ache. " _Burn_ you". Mumbled against his mouth with pure venom, a strong hand dipping down to grasp at his hip, thumb digging against the jutting bone in order to pull him closer, the gun moving back to his jaw as Morarity rocked against him, chasing his own pleasure with barely any heed for Sherlock's. "You're a delightful little toy, Sherlock. But everyone grows out of their toys at some point" Moriarty warned him, even through the pants of his own breath, His suit was rumpled and his tie slightly crooked, but the rest of him looked as put together as if he were simply standing there. 

"The types of toys Daddies play with aren't supposed to be grown out of" Sherlock bit back, one hand pushing between them to cup Moriarty's cock through the silken fabric of his trousers. And, fuck. He squeezed it gently, mapping the shape carefully with his fingers, the numbers flickering to life before his eyes. 

_Seven point three inches length, three inches circumference._

_Mouthwatering_. 

Moriarty let him touch, tossing the gun over his shoulder with a casual air, like one might toss a sweet wrapper. Neither of them flinched at the splash it made when it landed in the water, though Sherlock did make a mental note to retrieve it later. 

If Moriarty let him walk away from this. 

He had one hand on Moriarty's shoulder and the other against his cock, palming the man insistently while Moriarty bit and sucked at his neck, more pain than care, allowing Sherlock to rock against his own arm. 

"Perhaps I'll fuck you before I kill you" Moriarty seemed to decide, reaching up to yank at his hair again, drawing a broken sound from Sherlock's throat. "Or during. Watch you cum all over yourself just before you die". Its punctuated by the hand trailing from his hair, down to his throat, thumb against the side of his jugular, squeezing until breathing is more difficult than natural and the sound rattled through his own ears as Moriarty leaned up on his tip-toes to kiss him again, more bite and teeth than anything. 

"If you die before I finish, I'm not going to stop" Moriarty whispered against his mouth, a promise as much as a threat. Sherlock's eyes rolled as he squeezed Moriarty's stiff cock, his own stuttering forwards as his entire body locked and tensed, pressing back against the wall because he had no doubt Moriarty would kill him if he made a mess. Moriarty did nothing to coax him through it, watching him with a dark, intent gaze, devoid of... _Anything_. Like he was watching an ant die under a magnifying glass. No passion, no life.

Just darkness. 

It almost makes his cock gear up for round two. 

"Mm, boring. Let's make this interesting, shall we?" Moriarty sang, fingers tapping at his jaw in mock though. "Oh!" He snapped his fingers, casting Sherlock a wicked, dark gaze. "I know just the game. If you don't make me cum in the next two minutes, I'm glowing to blow John Watson up like a firework". 

Steadily, holding Moriarty's gaze, Sherlock sank to his knees. 


End file.
